Chapter 83

"Fuck!" The scream tore from Isabella's lips, jolting me out of my frozen shock just in time to see the man raise his pistol.

I lunged for the gun I'd dropped, fingers scrabbling against the cold metal. A single shot rang out. The man crumpled to the ground.

I didn’t spare him a glance—alive or dead, it didn’t matter. Not when adrenaline was roaring through my veins and Isabella was bleeding out in front of me.

Her breath hitched, tears spilling over. "I'm dying, aren't I?"

Normally, I’d tell her to stop being dramatic. But not now. Not when she’d shoved me aside and taken a bullet meant for me.

"No, you're not," I snapped, my hands already moving to assess the damage.

The wound was high on her shoulder, blood soaking through her shirt. Too much blood. My stomach twisted. If she bled out before we got help, or if the bastards hunting us found us first—

"You're lying!" she hissed as I pressed down hard on the wound. "If I'm not dying, why the hell does it feel like I am?"

I ignored her, ripping the hem of my dress to tie a makeshift bandage around her shoulder. The bullet was still lodged inside. Removing it here would only make things worse.

"Damn it," she groaned, glaring up at me through pain-glazed eyes. "I should've stayed in that fucking room."

"Too late for regrets," I muttered, hauling her up. "We have to move."

Fuck. Ethan was going to murder me. Not only had I dragged Isabella into this mess, but now she’d been shot protecting me.

Logically, it wasn’t my fault. She’d made the choice. But Ethan wouldn’t see it that way. One look at his precious sister bleeding in my arms, and I’d be the one to blame.

Isabella sagged against me, her steps growing heavier. How long had we been walking? Minutes? Hours? Time blurred into exhaustion. My legs burned, my hands shook, and my head pounded. Isabella was barely conscious now, her skin pale from blood loss.

"We need to stop," I gasped.

"Yesss," she slurred, swaying dangerously. "Good... idea."

I guided her to the rusted shell of an abandoned car, lowering her carefully before collapsing beside her. This place was a labyrinth. We’d been running in circles since we escaped, and now we were sitting ducks.

"Isabella," I said, voice rough. "I don’t think we’re getting out of here."

Silence.

I turned. Her eyes were closed, lips parted. Unconscious.

Panic clawed up my throat. I shook her, catching her before she toppled over. Her pulse was weak but there—thank God.

Tears burned my eyes. We were trapped. Isabella was fading. I was exhausted. And we were still deep in enemy territory.

A cold laugh cut through the silence.

"Tired of running?" A man stepped into view, gun gleaming in the dim light. "Or is your friend already dead?"

My blood turned to ice.

I’d said I didn’t care if they found us. I lied. I wasn’t ready to die.

"Please," I begged as he raised his weapon.

He wouldn’t kill me—Damien needed us alive. But that didn’t stop the terror coiling in my gut.

The safety clicked off.

"Boss wants you breathing," he sneered. "Doesn’t mean I can’t make you wish you weren’t."

His grin was pure malice. This wasn’t just a job for him. He enjoyed this.

I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for pain.

A gunshot cracked.

But no pain came.

I opened my eyes—and there stood Ethan, an avenging shadow, the gunman dead at his feet.

"Ethan," I breathed.

His gaze flicked from me to Isabella’s limp form.

Dread pooled in my stomach.

"She needs an ambulance," I rushed out. "She was shot, lost consciousness—"

Ethan didn’t speak. His expression was stone.

And that terrified me more than anything.

Because when Isabella woke up and told him she’d taken a bullet for me?

Retribution would come.